Tears of Dust
by 7437
Summary: Hi! This is my first fanfic ever, so please read, review, and comment! It's a crossover between BBC's Sherlock (Joan John) set in District Twelve. Joan has always run from the slightest hint of trouble. She has nothing left but her own willpower, her wits, and the wild that she loves. But how she can survive both her own despair and the brutal hunger games on her own?


Weak sunlight rested upon the dusty floorboards of the wooden home. A thin pane, made of a rare sheet of glass, was placed precariously in between two thin strips of wood. That pane and the thin wooden walls of the house were the only things that Joan had to protect herself from the harsh winter blizzard that was currently raging outside of her door. She crouched in what she hoped was the warmest corner of the house, hugging her knees to her chest, her thin frame not enough to keep her warm in these long, arduous months. Joan raised her head, braving the cold, and allowed the tiniest corner of her mouth to twitch.

She had built this little place. Right out here in the middle of nowhere, nothing but the trees and the cowering woodland creatures to keep her company.

Of course, things hadn't always been this way. She supposed that she had had a mother and a father once. She must have. Common sense, middle school whispers, and her sex ed class at school all told her so. She only had a few memories do her father. However, he mostly existed in her mind as small details-a trail of glittering black dust that led from the front door to the kitchen table, a sink basin full of swirling gray water, the rough scratch of a smile hidden by whiskers.

But there was something else that always accompanied her father's memory. A large bang that shattered her eardrums and her world. The gleam of gold in her mother's hand, gold that had not been so rare back then. Gold that could feed and support them for a few months. But a few months of food could never buy back her father's life.

No amount of money ever could.

Her mother had started to slip away soon after that. She had seemed fine for a month or so after her father's death. Bit the word "fine" meant nothing-she could barely move from her bed. Harriet had saved them, really. She had taken care of mother in her last weeks, when Joan hadn't yet understood what the words 'consumption' and 'in curable' meant.

The last few days were the worst. Mother had coughed blood up everywhere. There were always hand kerchiefs, drenched with the blood of a dying woman, hanging outside to dry.

There was another handful of gold, smaller this time. Apparently a woman, who had practically been a walking corpse after the death of her husband, was not equal to a man who spent his life digging and hacking into the flesh of Mother Earth as a miner.

Joan's parents had proved that the best kind of love was the kind that ripped out the hearts of all who shared in it.

Mother's death had sent Harriet into some sort of rage. She wouldn't talk for days on end, and when she did talk, she was either muttering in a language of her own invention or answering in monosyllabic words.

The money from her mother was running out fast. As a sixteen-year-old, Harriet was legally able to take care of the five-year-old Joan, but was physically unable to. She sat stiffly on a chair in the center of the room, staring into a future only she could see, occasionally commenting on the gruesome scenes that passed before her eyes. Harriet was in her own world, one so cold and dark that no one else dared venture into it. But the darkness had begun to take Harriet. She was quickly losing her desperate hold on reality. And the more Harriet began to slip away, the more that Joan clung to her, pleading for Harriet to look at her, to acknowledge the fact that Joan wasn't gone. That she was still here.

That Joan was still alive, and still needed her.

One day, Joan had rolled over in the ancient twin bed bed that she and Harriet had shared forever. Her thin fingers had stretched out timidly, exploring the cool linen that covered the bed, searching for Harriet's warm, breathing shape.

She found nothing but emptiness and a scrap of precious paper.

Joan's eyes widened, and she sat upright in her bed, snatching the paper and unfolding it with wild eyes.

Dear Joan,

I am so sorry for everything that I've done. I've retreated into my mind, a place where no child should ever have to venture. There are demons there, wild, destructive forces that even I cannot control. Not that I can control much, anyways.

But I have seen what the world will become. And it will be much worse than what is in the present, I assure you. But Joan, I'm so, so, sorry.

I only vaguely remember the last few weeks. I spent my reality in delirium, and the dreams of a madman overtook my already delicate brain. I was balancing, Joan, balancing on the edge of steep cliff. Starvation, poverty, mind-numbing desperation, and monotony lay at the top. That is where I was, but I can't stay there. I can't stay here and stay sane at the same time. I can't STAY anywhere. So I jumped.

And I'm so sorry to leave you here. Please believe me. But I was always nearing the edge of that cliff, and I've been tottering on the edge of the blade for the last few months.

And now, I've finally fallen.

I don't know what I'll find at the bottom. But perhaps it's better there. After all, SOMEPLACE has to be.

And I'm so sorry, please believe, and forgive, me. But I couldn't push you off of the edge with me.

But I'll come back for you, though. Someday, in the future when I've found our better place. You're a strong girl, Joan. Just stay strong for a little while longer. You've got a spark that can grow into a wildfire. Just remember that. And remember me, how this is only goodbye and not farewell.

Remember that I love you, Joan.

So sorry,

Harriet

Joan stared at the letter in mute shock. How had this happened? What exactly had happened?

Was Harriet still here?

Was she even still alive?

Joan crumpled Harriet's note in her fist and rushed into the kitchen. The room seemed to have been ransacked overnight. Their small table lay overturned and smashed in the corner. Their two chairs had been shattered in different corners of the room, now good for nothing but firewood. Various pots and pans gleamed in the weak sunlight, leaning on their sides as if they had been thrown.

Joan stood in the doorway in wide-eyed shock at the disarray before her. She drank in the sight like poison, and it twisted her insides the more she stared at the mess that had once been her home. She took a cautious step forward, watching as disturbed dust particles rose, gleaming, a strange type of magic dust.

Joan picked her way among the scattered debris, carefully avoiding any splinters or rubble that could get stuck in her small foot. She slowly advanced through the damaged kitchen, clearing a path towards the money jar on the counter. She stood on the tips of her toes and reached out a spindly hand, brushing the exterior of the jar with her fingertips. Grunting quietly, she just managed to wiggle the jar enough to hear the faint click of coins that would normally ring out in the silent house.

Instead, Joan heard nothing.

Harriet had taken not only Joan's heart, but the last of their money, as well.

Joan slid to the floor, still clutching the empty money jar. Tears leaked from her eyes, cutting a clean path through the grime that was constantly plastered to her face. Sniffling, Joan pushed her long, dirty-blonde hair back behind her ears and clutched her knees to the chest.

She didn't know how long she had stayed in that position. Seconds, minutes, hours, and days blurred into one another, passing unmarked as Joan's body shuddered with sobs. She felt as if she was on a wild sea, and was being constantly thrown onto jagged rocks that cut her to shreds with every fresh wave.

Eventually, Joan came to a decision. She would leave this rotting house and the dark memories it held behind. After all, she couldn't survive here, not on her own. She would have to become a beggar, or worse. She shuddered at the implication that those two words had. Or worse. How could anything possibly get worse?

She was completely abandoned. Totally alone. Her parents had gone, and her sister had left her with no means to support herself and a broken heart. Joan had to leave.

With the stubborn, immovable will that only a small child can maintain, Joan walked into her bedroom and began to gather her few worldly possessions. Wrapping it all up in a blanket, she hurried outside into the cold wind.

Moonlight shone down upon the small town, magnifying every detail into breathtaking clarity. Snow sparkled and crunched under Joan's feet, and she took care to step as lightly as she could in the new snow. If any patrolling peacekeepers heard her, she would surely killed for being out past curfew.

An excruciating hour had passed before Joan reached the fence that divided what could barely be called civilization from the harsh wild. A strange excitement bubbled up inside of her, and threatened to spill out through her mouth in a whoop in joy. But Joan restrained herself from screaming-if she was heard, she would die.

Quietly, and without much grace or bravado, the young Joan slipped under the fence and into the wild.


End file.
